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U.C  BERKELEY  UBRARY 


^ 


.) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


ON  THE  DISTINCTION   BETWEEN  THE 
ART-EPIC  AND  THE  FOLK-EPIC 

CORNELIUS  B.  BRADLEY 


[Reprinted  from  the  University  Chronicle,  Vol.  VIII.  No.  4] 


BERKELEY 

THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

1906 


o 


ON  THE  DISTINCTION  BETWEEN  THE  ART-EPIC 
AND  THE  FOLK-EPIC.i 


Cornelius  B.  Bradley. 


When  we  call  the  Paradise  Lost  and  other  poems  of  its 
kind  Art-epics,  and  so  distinguish  them  from  certain  others 
which  we  call  Folk-epics,  we  do  not  mean,  I  imagine,  that 
the  two  are  necessarily  different  in  subject-matter  or  in 
essentials  of  treatment:  for  the  so-called  Art-epics  have 
confessedly  copied  the  others  in  these  points.  Nor  do  we 
mean  that  in  genesis  and  development  the  two  are  different 
throughout.  It  is  clear  that  both  kinds  alike  strike  their 
roots  deep  into  the  same  subsoil  of  communal  consciousness 
and  of  racial  activity  wherein  are  the  beginnings  of  spiritual 
and  artistic  life  for  man.  Both  kinds  take  shape  under  the 
determining  influence  of  prevalent  ideals  of  beauty,  of  con- 
duct, and  of  character,  which  are  racial  and  not  individual. 
The  ultimate  materials  for  both,  whether  in  the  form  of 
story,  myth,  legend,  cosmogony,  or  theology,  are,  as  we 
know,  the  resultants  of  cooperative  efforts  on  the  part  of 
untold  generations  of  men.  The  earlier  stage  then  is  essen- 
tially alike  in  both;  and  so  too  is  the  final.  For  the  final 
form  in  both  is  determined  by  the  fusing,  the  coordination, 
and  reduction  of  all  this  mass  in  the  central  glow  of  some 
individual  imagination,  and  the  recasting  of  it  in  the  mold 
of  a  single,  adequate,  poetic  form.  Whatever  differences 
then  we  discern  between  the  Art-epic  and  the  Folk-epic 

^  Paper  read  at  a  meeting  of  the  Philological  Club,  April,  1905. 


136642 


miLst  be  either  differences  in  the  intermediate  stage  directly 
affecting  the  final  form ;  or,  possibly,  some  difference  in 
the  poet 's  temperament  or  circumstances ;  or  even  some  dif- 
ference in  ourselves,  which  may  modify  our  impression  of 
the  result.  The  factors  efficient  here  would  seem  to  be 
these:  (1)  The  individual  power  and  skill  of  the  redactor 
actually  brought  into  play.  (2)  The  relative  conditions  of 
age,  form,  and  consistency  in  which  the  various  materials 
are  furnished  to  his  hand,  in  so  far  as  these  affect  the  in- 
herent difficulty  of  the  redactor's  task,  and  the  consequent 
demand  for  the  exercise  of  conscious  art.  (3)  The  contem- 
porary attitude  of  men  regarding  this  material,  as  affecting 
the  freedom  which  the  poet  may  allow  himself  in  dealing 
with  it;  and  (4)  our  own  knowledge  or  ignorance  6f  the 
precise  facts  and  conditions  of  the  redaction,  which  uncon- 
sciously, but  surely,  affects  our  impression,  and  therefore 
our  classification,  of  individual  epics. 

As  for  the  first  point,  organizing  and  poetic  power  of 
a  very  high  order  is  presumed  in  the  case  of  any  poem 
which  the  suffrage  of  the  world  has  crowned  as  an  epic. 
That  fact  is  the  demonstration  of  its  presence.  Differences 
of  degree  within  this  first  order  of  poetic  power,  or  differ- 
ences of  aspect  and  function,  while  affecting  the  rank  of 
the  epic,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  do  not  at  all  affect  its  classifi- 
cation under  one  or  other  of  the  two  kinds  now  under  con- 
sideration. There  remains,  however,  the  pertinent  ques- 
tion of  how  constantly  and  how  pervasively  is  this  organiz- 
ing power  evoked,  how  large  is  the  demand  made  upon  it, 
and  how  obvious  are  the  proofs  of  its  exercise.  Since 
these  are  matters  immediately  concerned  with  the  remain- 
ing heads  of  my  discussion,  I  shall  defer  them  until  we 
encounter  them  in  their  places  further  on. 

The  second  point — the  actual  form  and,  condition  of  the 
raw  material  of  epic  poetry  which  comes  to  the  redactor's 
hands — is  one  of  considerable  importance.  If  the  redac- 
tion takes  place  not  too  long  after  the  close  of  the  natural 


growth  of  folk-lore  and  legend ;  if  the  material  reflects  the 
imaginative  life  of  a  single  unitary  people,  and  therefore 
of  a  single  epoch,  we  should  expect  to  find  in  it  a  degree  of 
homogeneity  both  in  matter  and  in  manner,  which  would 
very  greatly  simplify  the  task  of  redaction.  Artistic  selec- 
tion would  be  very  largely  anticipated  by  what  we  might 
call  natural  selection.  Many  of  the  forms  and  features  of 
communal  art,  being  already  in  harmony  with  each  other 
and  with  the  main  theme,  would  inevitably  be  preserved  in 
the  finished  work.  Not  that  there  would  be  less  need  of 
the  consummate  poet,  or  less  opportunity  for  him,  but  his 
art  would  largely  efface  him.  The  pervading  sense  of  a 
single  dominant  personality  would  to  us  be  greatly  lowered, 
with  corresponding  heightening  of  the  features  of  imper- 
sonal, i.e.,  racial,  cooperation.  A  work  so  brought  into  final 
form  we  should  certainly  count  a  Folk-epic; — and  such  a 
work  is  the  Iliad. 

But  let  us  suppose  the  contrary  case : — that  the  mass  of 
legendary  material  for  the  coming  epic  concerns  a  number 
of  diverse  peoples ;  that  its  various  elements  have  been  de- 
veloped under  widely  differing  conditions,  and  even  in  dif- 
ferent epochs ;  that  there  are  fundamental  discrepancies  of 
situation  or  of  story  to  be  harmonized  or  eliminated,  action 
to  be  newly  motived,  and  all  its  scenes  brought  as  it  were 
into  one  focus  and  reduced  to  one  scale;  that  all  its  life, 
of  whatever  original  cast,  is  all  to  be  made  to  assume  the 
guise  and  setting  of  an  already  fabulous  heroic  age  whose 
only  examples  are  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey.  In  such  a 
case  the  dominance  of  the  individual  and  of  his  art  will  be 
greatly  enhanced; — we  shall  everywhere  feel  the  presence 
of  the  poet.  Quite  apart  perhaps  from  what  we  now  know 
of  its  origin,  we  might  for  this  reason  alone  account  the 
fi^neid  an  Art-ppie. 

Or  let  us  put  one  other  case.  If  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, either  in  France  or  in  England,  the  Arthurian  legend 
had  found  its  poet  of  genius,  and  if  he  had  been  uplifted 


6 


on  a  swelling  tide  of  national  or  racial  enthusiasm,  we 
should  doubtless  have  had  a  genuine  Folk-epic.  But  if 
^Milton  in  the  seventeenth  century  had  carried  through  to 
completion  his  earlier  and  long-brooded  purpose, — had 
given  us  the  British  instead  of  the  Hebrew  story, — we 
should  certainly  have  had  an  Art-epic.  Between  these  two 
dates — in  Chaucer's  time  or  again  in  Malory's,  had  either 
of  these  men  been  fitted  for  the  task, — we  should  have  had 
a  result  which  might  conceivably  have  been  of  either  kind, 
according  to  the  obtrusiveness  of  the  personality  and  art, — 
the  original  prominence,  that  is,  of  the  personal  signature ; 
but  in  part  also  according  to  the  degree  in  which  the  lapse 
of  time  has  caused  that  signature  to  fade  from  our  view. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  had  Shakespeare's  genius  been  epi- 
cal rather  than  dramatic,  and  had  he — late  as  his  period 
was — addressed  himself  to  this  story,  I  venture  to  believe 
the  work  would  be  rated  as  a  Folk-epic.  Shakespeare  is  the 
known  and  historic  type  of  a  great  poetic  organizer  like 
our  unknown  and  mythical  Homer.  His  is  the  skill  to  work 
with  unhewn  stones — with  masses  of  material  most  diverse 
in  origin  and  form, — and  with  the  least  possible  alteration 
of  them,  to  build  them  into  a  noble  edifice.  HLs  is  the  art 
which  eflPaces  art,  as  it  certainly  did  even  to  his  contem- 
poraries. The  very  opposite  is  true  when  we  come  to  the 
only  great  poet  who  ever  actually  wrought  in  these  partic- 
ular materials — to  Tennyson  and  his  Idylls  of  the  King. 
Though  these  attain  not  to  the  continuity  and  complete- 
ness of  the  epic  and  are  therefore  only  epical,  there  can  be 
no  doubt  as  to  their  classification  with  reference  to  the  ques- 
tion we  are  now  considering.  They  represent  the  acme  of 
conscious  and  personal  art, — the  utmost  remove  from  the 
features  of  the  Folk-epic. 

The  third  point, — as  to  the  part  which  contemporary 
belief,  conviction,  and  reverence  for  tradition  may  play  in 
limiting  the  redactor's  freedom  in  the  exercise  of  his  art, — 
seems  to  me  to  be  of  not  nearly  so  much  importance  to  our 


present  discnssion  as  some  appear  to  think.  That  strong 
contemporary  feeling  toward  the  tradition — and  especially 
the  redactor's  own  feeling  as  reflecting  that  of  his  time — 
would  powerfully  affect  the  freedom  of  his  art  along  cer- 
tain lines  is  undoubtedly  true.  But  that  the  presence  of 
such  affirmative  feeling  should  have  much  to  do  with  mak- 
ing the  outcome  an  epic  of  the  Folk-species,  or  that  its  ab- 
sence, leaving  the  poet  more  fancy-free,  should  of  itself 
tend  to  make  his  art  more  dominant,  and  so  give  us  an  Art- 
epic,  seems  to  me  an  unwarranted  conclusion,  and  one  not 
borne  out  by  the  facts.  Virgil,  as  Heinze  has  abundantly 
shown,  feels  bound  religiously  to  respect  the  tradition.  He 
may  choose  between  different  versions  of  the  tradition  that 
one  which  best  suits  his  purpose.  He  may  fill  up  gaps  in 
the  tradition  with  material  of  his  own  invention.  He  may 
graft  foreign  tradition  upon  the  native  or  the  Grecian 
stock.  Above  all,  he  may  amplify,  embellish,  may  supply 
motive,  occasion,  and  setting;  may  infuse  into  it  all  his 
own  genius,  his  own  poetic  aspiration.  But  in  all  essentials 
Virgil  sticks  close  to  his  text.  Nevertheless  his  work  is  the 
very  type  of  the  Art-epic. 

On  the  other  hand  Homer  seems  to  have  worked  in  an 
atmosphere  of  much  greater  freedom.  Myth  and  legend 
seem  plastic  in  his  hands,  and  that  in  spite  of  much  greater 
apparent  belief  and  reverence,  both  as  regards  the  heroic 
and  as  regards  the  divine  phases  of  the  legend,  than  is  con- 
ceivable in  Virgil's  time. 

Milton,  at  a  greater  distance  from  the  origins  than  was 
the  case  with  either  of  these,  is  nevertheless  confronted 
both  within  himself  and  in  the  world  about  him  by  a  con- 
viction much  more  rigid  and  definite  than  Homer's,  and  by 
a  scruple  which  bound  him  to  follow  the  letter  much  more 
closely  than  did  Virgil.  It  is  worth  Avhile  moreover  in  this 
connection  to  note  how  closely  Tennyson  too  has  followed 
Malory,  though  surely  neither  the  poet  himself  nor  his  age 
could  have  felt  the  slightest  scruple — unless  it  were  an 


artistic  one — to  prevent  him  from  doing  as  he  would  with 
heroes  whose  very  existence  at  all  in  the  flesh  is  openly 
doubted  or  denied.  Certain  human  types  from  the  old 
myths,  it  is  true,  have  become  symbolic — are  now  psycho- 
logical studies,  and  poets  in  succeeding  ages  are  fond  of 
shaping  them  anew  in  the  image  and  fashion  of  their  own 
times,  and  trying  their  reaction  under  changed  conditions 
and  social  ideals.  Such  old  types  freely  dealt  with  anew 
are  of  immense  importance  and  interest  as  landmarks  of 
the  progress  of  human  thought,  and  the  gradual  shift  of 
its  ideals.  Such  are  the  Ulysses  of  Dante  and  of  Tennyson, 
the  Prometheus  of  Shelley  and  of  Lowell,  the  Faust  of  Mar- 
lowe and  of  Goethe,  and  the  various  impersonations  of  the 
Satan-type — including  Prometheus — from  the  Satan  of  Job 
to  ]\Iephistopheles.  These  are  dealt  with  more  freely  per- 
haps in  proportion  to  their  distance  from  their  originals. 
But  apart  from  such  cases  as  these,  the  very  reverse  of  the 
usual  assumption  would  seem  quite  as  close  to  the  truth,  if 
not  closer;  namely, the  nearer  the  beginnings, the  more  plas- 
tic in  genera]  is  the  material  of  the  tradition ;  and  not  until 
late  is  it  likely  to  crystallize  into  definite  dogma,  or  become 
a  matter  of  creed  which  one  touches  at  his  peril. 

The  last  point  is  one  I  have  never  seen  discussed  or 
even  mentioned;  yet  it  seems  to  me  deserving  of  serious 
attention.  The  assignment  of  a  great  poem  to  the  one  class 
or  the  other  is  not  in  every  case,  surely,  a  matter  of  ob- 
jective certainty  or  of  absolute  demonstration.  It  is  rather 
the  outcome  of  a  total  impression  made  upon  us; — the  im- 
pression of  the  presence  or  absence  of  a  single  conscious 
purpose  powerful  enough  to  coordinate  and  unify  all  de- 
tails, and  of  a  conscious  personal  technique  and  art  which 
make  themselves  felt  there  in  the  work.  All  poems  that  we 
know  of  epic  grade  root  themselves  in  some  great  tradition 
of  which  they  are  the  final  and  consummate  flower.  All  of 
them  therefore  have  the  popular,  the  communal  element, 
the  fragmentary  and  discrepant  material  as  their  basis, 


needing  to  be  fused  in  the  central  heat  of  some  great  artistic 
imagination  before  the  broken  fragments  can  become  a 
great  poem.  Convei*sely  all  poems  which  we  account  worthy 
to  take  rank  as  epics  have  had,  we  feel  sure,  from  some 
hand  this  final  personal  shaping;  since  the  constant  ten- 
dency to  ramify  and  cliverge7  which  is  the  mark  of  the 
popular,  the  communal,  phase  of  the  process,  could  never 
reverse  itself  without  passing  out  of  that  phase  into  the 
phase  of  personal  art.  Both  the  communal  origin,  then, 
and  the  personal  art  are  present  in  every  epic.  The  dif- 
ference therefore  becomes  a  question  of  degree  and  not  of 
kind :  How  completely  has  the  organizing  imagination  and 
purpose  mastered  these  unorganized  materials?  How  far 
have  the  resources  of  the  poet's  expressive  art  sufficed  to 
give  the  resulting  conception  adequate  and  harmonious  ex- 
pression? Perfection  in  either  kind  it  is  idle  to  look  for. 
No  imagination  can  suffice  to  reconcile  all  discrepancies,  to 
fill  up  all  gaps  in  material  so  originating ;  nor  can  any  art 
working  on  so  vast  a  scale  efface  entirely  all  traces  of  the 
tools  of  previous  workmen.  Every  work  of  art  is  really  a 
palimpsest,  but  epic  art  more  so  than  any  other,  and  in- 
evitably so. 

Here  as  elsewhere  hindsight  is  proverbially  better  than 
foresight; — we  see  what  we  are  prepared  to  see.  The  dis- 
tinguished scientist,  you  remember,  who  when  asked  to  ob- 
serve some  specially  interesting  object  made  ready  for  him 
in  the  field  of  the  miscroscope,  instinctively  paused  to  ask 
before  he  would  look,  "What  am  I  to  see?"  was  quite 
right.  Had  he  not  received  that  direction,  he  might  have 
looked  in  vain; — he  might  have  missed  entirely  the  in- 
tended demonstration.  So  here  in  a  great  epic  a  conscious 
purpose  is  much  more  clearly  discerned  when  we  know  what 
to  look  for,  when  we  have  learned  from  other  sources  some- 
what of  the  artist's  character  and  tendencies.  His  art  is 
more  apparent  the  more  we  know  of  his  artistic  training, 
his  masters,  his  models,  and  the  history  of  his  development. 


10 


If  these  elements  in  his  case  are  well  known,  and  known 
to  be  eflficient  and  powerful,  the  presumption  of  course  will 
be  strong  that  they  will  be  found  in  the  epic  he  has  worked 
upon,  and  that  they  will  determine  its  artistic  quality.  But 
it  is  conceivable  also  that  for  one  reason  or  another  these 
powers,  though  generally  pronounced  enough,  may  have 
been  feebly  exercised  in  any  particular  case;  or  even 
though  competent,  the  poet  may  be  without  a  strong  ego- 
istic manner.  In  such  cases  we  might  find  ourselves  quite 
at  a  loss,  and  our  demonstration  would  not  be  complete 
till  Avc  hnd  unearthed  the  quarry  in  which  he  worked,  had 
found  the  rough  blocks  which  he  was  to  build  into  his 
stately  edifice: — that  is,  had  discovered  his  sources  in  the 
form  in  which  they  came  to  his  hands.  Not  until  this  has 
been  done  have  we  any  absolute  control  upon  subjective 
and  impressionistic  judgment.  In  Milton's  case  we  have 
of  course  full  infonnation  on  all  these  points.  Yet  it  seems 
to  us,  no  doubt,  that  without  any  of  this  information  we 
should  be  able  to  recognize  anywhere  that  splendid  egoism 
of  character  and  the  music  of  that  "organ  voice  of  Eng- 
land";— and  so  I  agree  we  should  in  general.  But  I  am 
not  so  sure  of  detail  and  of  special  passages.  What  would 
the  art  critic  of  three  millenniums  hence,  with  no  Bible,  no 
Homer,  no  Dante,  no  Tasso,  no  history,  and  no  other  poems 
of  Milton  to  afford  him  a  clew — ^what  would  he  make  of 
the  allegory  of  Sin  and  Death,  of  that  grotesque  Limbo  on 
"the  backside  of  the  world,"  of  that  other  grotesque  and 
irrationality  of  battle  in  Heaven  with  gunpowder  and 
cannon,  of  coarse  punning  speech  on  the  part  of  arch- 
angels who  count  themselves  equals  of  the  Most  High,  or 
of  that  scene  in  the  grand  audience  chamber  of  Hell,  when 
"Princes,  Powers,  Potentates,  the  flower  of  Heaven  once 
lost"  assembled  to  hear  the  report  of  their  mighty  leader's 
success,  suddenly  fall  prone  and  grovelling  in  guise  of  ser- 
pents, and  instead  of  the  intended  applause  utter  only  "a 
dismal  universal  hiss"?     Or  what  would  he  make  of  the 


11 


passages  where  Milton's  scruple  about  the  very  words  of 
scripture  has  given  us  whole  blocks  of  lines  which  are  little 
more  than  centos,  whose  metrical  form  even  does  not  con- 
form to  rules  which  Milton  elsewhere  observes?  Under 
criticism  like  that  we  are  only  too  familiar  with  would  not 
these  almost  inevitably  be  marked  as  ' '  intrusive  materials, ' ' 
unassimilated  and  unassimilible ; — instances  in  fact  of  the 
very  sort  of  thing  which  characterize  the  Folk-epic?  Yet 
most  of  these,  as  we  know,  are  Milton's  own  invention  pure 
and  simple,  and  are  not  found  in  any  of  his  models  or 
sources.  All  this,  be  it  observed,  in  the  case  of  Milton, 
whose  personality  and  art  are  as  definite  and  unmistakable 
as  any  we  know  in  literature.  But  suppose  the  artist  of 
Paradise  Lost  had  been  quite  another,  yet  as  great  or  even 
greater  than  Milton ;  but  an  artist  of  a  different  method ; — 
suppose  it  had  been  Shakespeare,  working  broadly  and  rap- 
idly, incurious  of  minute  and  uniform  finish,  compelled  by 
haste  to  collaborate  with  other  men,  to  appropriate  whole 
blocks  of  material  either  as  it  stood,  or  with  slight  touches 
of  his  own, — an  artist  of  no  one  fixed  mood  and  master- 
temper  to  betray  him,  but  of  immense  range  and  compass — 
had  it  been  so,  what  could  the  critic  do  but  pronounce  the 
work  a  Folk-epic  ?  Is  it  not  conceivable — nay,  is  it  not  even 
probable — that  such  is  the  case  with  Homer?  Clearly  then 
our  knowledge — that  is,  our  ignorance — of  the  facts  may 
determine  our  judgment,  and  may  determine  it  wrongly. 
It  is  at  least  a  significant  fact  that  of  all  the  works  we 
agree  to  call  Folk-epics  not  one,  so  far  as  I  can  recall,  has 
grown  to  completion  within  the  range  of  our  vision  and 
recorded  observation;  and  not  one  of  our  so-called  Art- 
epics  is  the  work  of  an  artist  we  do  not  personally  know. 

These  arguments,  it  may  be  said,  are  purely  hypothet- 
ical; and  such  they  are  frankly  admitted  to  be.  But  such 
too,  it  seems  to  me,  are  the  arguments  which  oppose  them. 
The  fact  is  that  the  group  of  poems  we  are  now  consid- 
ering is  so  small,  so  essentially  diverse  in  character,  and 


12 


with  few  exceptions  so  absolutely  unknown  to  us  in  the  real 
facts  and  circumstances  of  their  origin,  that  sound  general- 
ization is  extremely  difficult,  to  say  the  least;  and  dogrma- 
tism  of  any  sort  is  entirely  out  of  place.  If  we  consider 
the  standard  epics  of  both  sorts  along  with  other  forms  of 
literature  most  nearly  allied  to  them,  we  shall  find  that 
they  form  an  almost  perfect  series  with  no  impassable  gaps. 
Beginning  with  mere  collections  of  ballads  and  lays,  like 
those  of  Percy  and  Child,  they  grade  upward  into  cycles 
like  the  Arthurian  Romances,  and  these  again  into  definite 
redactions  and  integrations  like  the  Morte  d 'Arthur  or  the 
Kalevala.  Between  these  and  the  lower  grade  of  epics — 
more  or  less  doubtfully  of  that  rank — such  as  Beowulf,  the 
Nibelungenlied,  and  the  Mahabharata,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  draw  any  sure  line  save  that  of  our  own  knowledge  or 
ignorance  of  the  precise  conditions  of  the  final  shaping. 
Passing  these,  we  come  to  the  Homeric  poems,  the  surest 
types  for  us  of  the  genuine  Epic.  And  after  all  the  tumult 
of  battle  which  has  raged  about  them,  it  is  interesting  to 
note,  as  Matthew  Arnold  points  out,  that  the  most  abiding 
impression  they  make  upon  the  appreciative  reader  is  the 
impression  of  essential  unity,  pointing  clearly  to  the  work 
of  some  single  poet  of  uncommon  mastery  and  skill,  though 
otherwise  unknown  to  us.  In  this  same  group  we  should 
doubtless  put  the  Ramayana  and  very  likely  some  others 
of  unknown  authorship,  if  only  we  count  them  in  general 
character  and  excellence  worthy  to  stand  in  this  privileged 
group — as,  for  instance,  the  Cid,  or  even  some  of  those 
named  in  the  preceding  group.  Of  intrinsic  character  quite 
akin  to  these,  but  of  known  authorship,  are  the  ^'Eneid,  the 
Divina  Commedia,  Shah  Namah,  and  Paradise  Lost;  and 
with  these,  but  for  its  dramatic  form, — in  this  case  hardly 
a  vital  matter, —  should  be  associated  Goethe's  Faust.  Be- 
yond these  still  are  certain  elaborate  poetical  studies  both 
ancient  and  modern,  in  various  form  and  to  different  ar- 
tistic ends,  but  on  themes  from  the  epic  field : — Prometheus, 


13 


Ulysses,  Agamemnon,  Ajax,  Enceladus,  CEnone,  Iphigenia, 
with  Tennyson's  Arthurian  Idylls  and  many  others; — 
through  which  field  our  quest  brings  us  back  once  more  into 
the  realm  of  general  poetry. 

To  sum  up  very  briefly,  then,  the  conclusions  of  this 
paper  may  be  stated  somewhat  as  follows:  (1)  The  ulti- 
mate materials  used  in  each  of  the  epic  forms  we  have  been 
considering  are  the  same :  mj^h,  legend,  and  tradition.  The 
complete  and  final  form  moreover  is  due  to  the  skill  of  some 
individual  poet  and  artist.  The  elements  of  difference  then 
are  either  the  essential  character  and  the  degree  of  elabora- 
tion of  the  popular  materials  used,  or  the  boldness  of  the 
signature  of  the  artist.  (2)  If  we  regard  the  actual  condi- 
tion of  the  materials  used  as  not  of  any  great  importance 
in  this  present  discussion,  and  therefore  negligible  here, 
there  remains  the  signature  of  the  artist  to  be  considered — 
the  impress  of  his  personality.  Not  merely  will  this  act- 
ually vary  through  all  degrees  with  the  character  and  force 
of  the  artist,  but  the  signature  itself  in  any  given  work  is 
not  forever  a  constant  quantity.  Bolder  and  blacker  at 
first,  it  inevitably  fades  with  time;  and  especially  when 
read  in  the  twilight  of  our  ignorance,  it  is  sure  to  seem  to 
us  fainter  than  it  really  is.  It  cannot  therefore  be  a  sure 
criterion  by  which  to  classify  works  of  different  men  and 
of  different  times.  In  further  support  of  this  point  is  the 
surprising  uniformity  of  rating  in  the  one  group  all  the 
works  of  known  artists,  and  in  the  other  all  the  works  of 
artists  unknown,  (3)  The  distinction  then  between  the 
Folk-epic  and  the  Art-epic  so-called  is  a  vanishing  one, 
convenient  indeed  for  certain  purposes  of  education  and 
criticism,  and  in  typical  cases  apparent  enough  for  such 
purposes ;  but  too  subjective — too  impressionistic — too  little 
based  on  fact  and  knowledge  to  be  final. 


^/FOh-r- 


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